A Classic American Road Trip
Trip Start
Sep 13, 2006
1
15
31
Trip End
Mar 27, 2007
El Paso,
Texas,
United States
Thursday, December 28, 2006
'Smuggling and Betrayal' by Los Tigres del Norte - a narcocorrida
Chihuahua is a pleasant enough city to spend a couple of days adjusting to the pace of Mexican life. Ambience wise, it feels like a large country town surrounded by mountains and desert - unpretentious with a hint of dereliction. White cowboys hats are the height of fashion amongst men. In the main shopping street mariachis entertain the crowds while Indian women dressed in colourful garb sell their handicrafts So far my attempts to communicate with the locals have met with limited success.
Yesderday I visited the Museum of the Mexican Revolution which is situated in the former residence of Pancho Villa, bandit turned revolutionary. Pancho joined the revolution against conservative dictator Porfirio Diaz in 1910. After meeting intial success the revolutionaries fell out among themselves and spent the next ten years fighting each other. Villa made many enemies before he was assassinated in 1923 in the town of Parral. The bullet-riddled black Dodge, in which he was riding when the fatal shots were fired, is on display at the museum.
My journey from San Francisco to the Mexican frontier took me across five U.S. states - California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas - all of which were at one time - along with Colorado and Utah - at least nominally under Mexican control. Immigrants from the U.S. declared Texas independent in 1836 and in 1846 and later encouraged the U.S. government to declare war. The conquest of the South-West was completed in 1853 through land purchase. Nowadays immigration is mainly in the other direction.
After the so-called War On Terror, the border with Mexico is the second biggest politcal issue in the United States. There´s talk of building an Israeli-style wall along the 1,500 mile long border to keep out terrorists and Mexicans. Meanwhile, an estimated 12 million undocumented immigrants keep the U.S. economy ´competitive´. And along the border ´coyotes´ make fortunes from smuggling.
I had more immediate concerns the day I collected a white Saturn Ion coupe at Union Square in San Francisco - getting out of the city. This proved to be a nerve-wracking experience but eventually I made it across to Ocean Beach and turned south. A few kilometeres south I rejoined Highway 1 which soon reverted to the familiar two-lanes twisting and turning along the coast between forest-clad hills and the breaking ocean. Sunset over Monterey Bay was a particularly impressive sight.
Pacific Coast Near Big Sur CA
The next couple of days I spent exploring the diverse landscapes of California starting with the coastline around Big Sur, perhaps the most dramatic stretch of the U.S. western seaboard. For a hundred miles south of Monterey the Santa Lucia Mountains abutt the Pacific forming a succession of dramatic headlands above which the highway - an impressive feat of engineering in itself - winds its course. Driving here is not for the faint hearted and requires a high level of concentration as the hillside frequently plummets several hundred feet from the roadside and there isn´t always a safety barrier.
I paused at a roadside turnout to admire the view along the coast where half a dozen headlands were lined up in near-perfect symmetry. The sound of barking seals came drifting up from the shore below while, on a distant treetop, a Californian condor stretched its huge black wings. A little further on I pulled into one of the numerous state parks along theis part of the coast. Following a trail down the hillside I arrived at an idyllic cove where a waterfall tumbled off a crag onto a sandy beach. A few minutes later, back behind the wheel, I felt twinge of envy as I passed a couple of cyclists heading south, their bikes fully loaded.
Chocolate Box Scenery At Big Sur CA
At the little town of Cambria I turned inland, crossing bare brown hills dotted with cattle. East of Pasa Pobles, on Highway 41, is James Dean Memorial Junction. I took my foot off the gas and descended into ´the valley´, centre of California´s agricultural production, For 100 miles the highway passes through a flat landscape of vineyards, orchards, oil rigs and dry fields. Through a haze, a long brown ridge came into view - the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. East of Bakersfield Highway 138 headed straight for the mountains. A cleft opened up, wide enough for a two-lanes of tarmac and a tumbling river. The road twisted and climbed along the base of a rock face for the best part of thirty miles making for a challenging drive. It was dark by the time I headed a long queue of traffic out of the gorge. I camped that night surround by howling coyotes in a freezing sequoia forest near the town of Lake Isabella.
Joshua Trees In The Sierra Nevada CA
Next morning I drove to Lake Isabella reservoir where I paused for a brief nap, before continuing up the valley to Walker Pass at an altitude of 6,000 feet. A hiking trail led up to a ridgline from where I hoped to catch a glimpse of the high sierra. Instead, a parched landscape of dry brown hills tapered off into the distance. Strange beautiful Joshua trees, their gnarled limbs coated with prickly green spines, covered the hillsides.
Mount Whitney CA
Highway 395 runs north through the desert along the eastern flanks of the Sierra Nevada. I stopped for the night at the town of Lone Pine which lies in the shadow of a jagged line of snow-capped peaks. Next morning I drove up into the foothills. To a backdrop of towering Alpine summits I wandered across a surreal landscape of rock castles in search of natural arches sculpted by the wind.
View of Sierra Nevada From Lone Pine CA
Heading east again I paused for a last glimpse of the Sierra Nevada across the silt bed of a dried-up lake, starved of water by the Los Angeles Aqueduct. Continuing over a low pass a roadside sign welcomes travellers to Death Valley National Park. An abyss opens up before a distant range of snow sprinkled mountains and the highway plunges steeply downwards through a series of tight bends. A couple of air force jets scream by overhead before diving into a ravine leaving nothing but a low rumble. I follow a path along the edge of the gully to a promontory which overlooks the void below. The black thread of highway winds its way down to a yellow scar of sand running along the valley floor before climbing up through the bands of black, beige and ochre rock on the hillside opposite. An immense silence descends upon a Biblical landscape.
Sierra Nevada From Lake Owens CA
Arriving at the bottom of the valley another roadsign informs me that I´m actually in Panamint Valley. I climb five thousand feet to a mountain pass where snow is piled up along the roadside before commencing the slow descent into Death Valley. The setting sun colours the dunes on the floor of the valley gold. Dozens of vehicles are lined up by the roadside. Elsewhere a couple of small towns have sprung up to cater for tourists. Main Street America has arrived in Death Valley. It's time to hit Vegas.
View of Panamint Valley, Death Valley NP, CA
By night, Las Vegas is a golden bowl of light which illuminates the mountains for dozens of miles around and Las Vegas Boulevard, a.k.a. The Strip, is the brightest part of it. It's New York, Venice, Egypt, Paris, Baghdad and Rome - each with hundreds of hotel rooms - on one street. Huge construction sites get ready to simulate more of the world´s wonders (Mecca?). I spent an evening wandering along the strip breathing in the glitz and the sleaze. Gambling and entertainment, shopping and whoring is what Vegas is about - Disneyland for adults. Nowhere else does ersatz with such style.
Panamint Valley, Death Valley NP, CA
Free shows outside the casinos draw the punters: on an artificial lake outside one casino huge jets of water leap high into the air accompanied by classical music; outside another place a volcano erupts every hour on the hour. I watched a show outside Treasure Island casino where two pirate ships manned by fabulous-looking crews did battle along with fabulous pyrotechnics and ridiculous songs. Meanwhile migrant workers worked the crowd handing out tart cards. It was past midnight when I drove past the strip joints and wedding chapels at the northen end of The Strip and turned onto the freeway. Overhead the lights of a dozen planes stretched out in a line above the airport. For the new arrivals the Vegas night was still young.
Death Valley CA
Lake Mead is man-made, created when the Colorado River was dammed in the 1930s. Under a dark early morning sky it presented a bleak countenance. Isles of jagged black rock jutted out of the grey waters while a chain of barren mountains provided an equally solemn backdrop.
Interstate 93 descends sharply into the Colorado gorge winding its way down through a series of switchbacks in the shadow of a rock face. Since 9/11 Homeland Security monitors all traffic passing over Hoover Dam. I pass through the checkpoint unhindered. Then, rounding a final bend, the wall of the dam comes into view a short distance ahead. Blocking the throat of the narrow ravine, it plunges downwards for several hundred feet. In a matter of seconds I pass the twin clock towers - Arizona is one hour ahead of Nevada - on top of the dam and begin the long winding climb out of the gorge.
Five thousand feet up in the Arizona desert light snow is falling. Long lines of inhospitable peaks rise out of the plateau on either side of the highway. After a quick breakfast at the Route 66 diner in Kingman I continued east on Interstate 40. As the freeway climbed the snow grew heavier, obscuring the landscape and covering the road.
The town of Williams sits in a bowl of pine covered mountains at an altitutde of 7,000 feet. When I arrived it was all Christmassed-up with a thick blanket of snow. I checked into a motel and turned the heating up full blast.
Disaster struck the next morning when I couldn´t find the car key. I turned over the motel room a number of times to no avail. I retraced my steps from the previous night - when I´d gone out to buy some food - but they were covered by fresh snow. No-one at the restaurant had seen the key and it wasn´t at the gas station either. Nor had it been handed in at the police department. I bit the bullet and picked up the phone.
South Rim, Grand Canyon AZ
For a tidy sum the car hire company arranged for a locksmith to come out and cut a replacement key. By the time he showed up the day was gone. ´Merry Christmas´ he said, counting up the bills. I felt like a total idiot but at least I was mobile again. I vowed to reduce my carbon emissions before driving off aimlessly in the direction of Flagstaff, returning to Williams later in the evening.
On Christmas Eve I drove north from Williams leaving the mountains behind. A snow-covered forest extended over the table-flat Colorado Plateau for as far as the eye could see. An hour´s drive brought me to the National Park entrance at South Rim. I forked out twenty-five bucks and went looking for a parking spot.
View from South Rim Trail, Grand Canyon NP, AZ
The Grand Canyon of the Colorado River is frequently cited as one of the world´s Seven Natural Wonders. The figures are certainly impressive - a mile deep, three hundred miles long and up to fifteen miles wide - not to mention the millions who show up each year, mainly in the area around the South Rim Visitor Centre. Business was brisk when I took my place on the lip of the canyon and looked down. 'Awesome!', was my immediate reaction. Then I took out my camera and started clambering around, looking for the perfect shot!
Snow clung to the upper reaches of the canyon, adding an extra dimension to the beauty
of the scene. The canyon walls fell away gradually, culminating in majestic towers and spires of pink sandstone which had been sculpted by the wind. Far below, the muddy waters of the Colorado River, sunk deep within dark volcanic slopes were only intermittently visible. In the bright midday sun the north wall of the canyon took on a uniform appearance - layers of fiery red and ochre sandstone capped by thin bands of limestone the colour of porcelain with a thin line of green vegetation, ruler straight, to separate the confection from a blue cloudless sky. Interestingly, there was no snow on the North Rim of the canyon , although it's around 1,000 feet higher than the South Rim.
Colour Contrast, Grand Canyon NP, AZ
I followed the South Rim Trail west for several miles as it wound its way around various promontories and side-canyons, seldom more than a few feet from a precipitous drop. With icy conditions underfoot, the utmost caution was required. From a number of points along the rim mule-trails led down treacherous slopes into deep side-canyons from where they continued all the way down to the Colorado River. I was to amazed to see quite a number of brightly-clad hikers making their down way some of these trails. Having already fallen on my ass a couple of times while on the rim trail I decided not to venture down into the side-canyons.
Afternoon Shadows on the Grand Canyon
As the sun sank lower in the sky, pockets of shadow appeared on the north wall, highlighting the amazing topography of spires, buttes and side-canyons. I retraced my steps along the canyon rim and paused for one final glance before heading back to the visitor´s centre where I spent ten minutes searching the car park. Remote-control car keys were a very useful invention.
On Christmas morning I bade farewell to the motel owners, a couple from Bombay who had helped me through the key-loss episode with cups of tea and common-sense philosophy, and drove east on I-40 towards Albequerque. Throughout the day Santa regaled me with a series of beautiful desert landscapes to a classic rock soundtrack: the towers of Monument Valley rising out of the plain on the northern horizon; the lurid colours of the Painted Desert; the sandstone escarpments of western New Mexico; Indian pueblos gathered around hilltop Spanish missions. In the rear-view mirror I watched the sunset over grassy cattle ranges set amid a bowl of snow-capped peaks. As darkness fell, I turned south along the valley of the Rio Grande, high ridges silhouetted on either side. I stopped for a cup of coffee at a place called Truth Or Consequences and departed none the wiser. It was past nine when I crossed into the Lone Star State and the lights of El Paso came into view.
The anticipated showdown at Alamo failed to materialise. In fact the guy on duty at returns couldn´t have been nicer. To my relief he didn´t make any comment on the key that I handed over, which lacked both remote control and central locking. I headed into the adjacent airport terminal in search of breakfast. At the U.S. Army counter a line of troops dressed in desert camoflague reported back for duty.
A range of dry sand-coloured hills guards the eastern approaches of El Paso. Featureless suburbs, host to the usual menagerie of franchises, drag on for miles. In the city centre shabby discount stores and vacant lots line the street leading to the border crossing. A tide of people surge in along one sidewalk while on the otherside of the street, the tide goes out. Women pull shopping trolleys and small children while men shoulder heavy bags. A long line of dust covered pick-ups and SUVs stretches back for several hundred yards.
CNN reports that W is on his ranch in Crawford, a few hundred miles to the east. I keep an eye out for potential right-wing nutcases but they´re hard to spot. Most people in El Paso are immigrants from Mexico or U.S. born ´Chicanos´. Though the latter group speaks English with a twang equal to that of any gringo, the Spanish language predominates.
Next day, I join the crowds heading south. Foreigners on bicycles are an oddity here and cause confusion among the border guards. After checking out with Homeland Security I start pushing my bicycle across the forecourt of the frontier station towards a stream of Juarez bound pedestrian traffic when a zealous guard collars me and accuses me of trying to sneak into the U.S. illegally. Fortunately a colleague tells him to back off and helps me to lift my bicycle over a low wall. A turnstile gives access to a caged-over walk-way running along the side of a road bridge. I pay the 50 cents toll and join the flow south. Below, a jumble of freight cars accumulates rust in the sidings. An inconsequential trickle, twenty feet wide, is the Rio Grande. Slogans on a crumbling wall running along the Juarez bank lambast U.S imperialism. Along the concrete bed of the flood channel a dozen or so young men lurk among the litter and the weeds. They too, are on the cusp of a new adventure.
ENDS
